Raising Jake Part 16

"Hey, your pants are all f.u.c.ked up."

"I know."

"And you forgot to bring the bike inside."

I sighed, looked at the floor. "Somebody stole it."

"Stole it?"

"It wasn't there when I got downstairs from the last delivery."

He rubbed his face, muttered an Italian oath. "Who would steal such a piece-o'-s.h.i.t bike?"

"I don't know."

He c.o.c.ked his head at me. "I bet you forgot to lock it! You didn't lock it, did you?"

I thought about lying, changed my mind. "No, I didn't lock it."

"Sammy. Sammy." Sammy."

"I know, I know."

"You gotta make good for that bike."

I knew this would happen, and I also knew the old p.r.i.c.k was enjoying it. Might he have sent someone to steal it, so his faithful employee could get stuck for the price of a much-needed new one? I wouldn't put it past him.

"How much?" I ventured.

He rubbed the back of his wrinkly neck. "I dunno...forty bucks?"

"Forty bucks! It's a twenty-year-old bike!"

"Sammy-"

"You said yourself it was a piece o' s.h.i.t!"

"Yeah, but it worked, worked, didn't it? And I have to didn't it? And I have to replace replace it, don't I?" it, don't I?"

"I'll replace it, okay?" replace it, okay?"

He hadn't thought of this possibility. His already narrowed eyes became razor slits. "Where you gonna get a bike?"

"Leave it to me."

"All right, but it's gotta be a bike that can do the job."

"It will be. Don't worry about it."

"Don't get mad, Sammy. You gotta be responsible in life, know what I mean?"

This was the perfect lesson for a fallen young Catholic, absolutely flawless. I'd sinned by watching a stripper, and for my instantaneous penance, I was. .h.i.t with oil-stained pants and a stolen bike.

We turned off the lights and stepped outside. I helped him pull down the burglar gate.

"You want a ride home?"

"No, I don't want a ride home."

I walked off without saying good night. The oil stains on my pants were going to be hard to get out. Maybe I should present Napoli with a cleaning bill, as long as I was being dunned for the bike. If my mother were still alive she'd know how to get the stain out, but she was dead, and it was times like this that I thought of her.

Were people in heaven able to watch us down on earth? My mother wouldn't have liked to see me ogling a stripper. That would have made her suffer, and that brought up another point-would G.o.d let his good little souls in heaven suffer by witnessing the deeds of their sinful loved ones down on earth? Or did they just play their harps and hang out with each other in a blissful state of grace, ignorant of the sinning being done by their survivors down on earth?

I needed advice. I needed comfort. I needed a shoulder to cry on, but whose? My father's?

Well, it was worth a shot. He was bound to be at Charlie's Bar, as he always was on Sat.u.r.day nights, not to mention Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Charlie's Bar became my destination.

It was past 1:00 a.m. when I entered the joint, a place I'd only ever been to in search of my old man. Charlie's was a dingy, grimy gin mill that was more like a slovenly friend's finished bas.e.m.e.nt than a licensed saloon. It had fake wood paneling in the halls, and bar stools with fake leather seats.

But Charlie McMahon was real, a burly, gray-haired retired fireman who worked the stick six nights a week, serving the working-stiff locals. He didn't seem to like his customers very much, but for some reason he liked my father, probably because they were both Irish, and for that reason he was always friendly to me.

"Sammy! What the h.e.l.l happened to your pants?"

"Pizza box leaked on 'em."

"You still workin' for that miserable guinea?"

Apparently he'd forgotten that I was half Italian. "Yeah, well, it's a job.... My old man around?"

"He came and he left. Looked kinda tired. You guys doin' all right, Sammy?"

I shrugged.

"He misses your mother somethin' awful."

The h.e.l.l he did. "So he went home a while ago?"

"Maybe half an hour."

"All right, I'll see you around, Charlie."

"Wait. Sit. Have one on the house, you had a rough night."

Before I could object he set a longneck Budweiser in front of me, dripping foam. "Happy days, kid."

"Thanks."

Why did he want me around? Maybe because it was so d.a.m.n depressing in there. Three or four middle-aged guys were sitting at the other end of the bar, sh.e.l.l-backed men solemnly staring into the foam at the bottom of their beer mugs in search of that elusive key to happiness. What a place to look for it!

At least I was young-underage, in fact. Even if I just sat there without saying a word, I'd bring some vitality to those dismal early morning hours. Charlie went to the other end of the bar to refresh the sh.e.l.l-backs' drinks, and that's when she walked in and sat down next to me.

She didn't even look at me at first. Charlie came over when he was through at the other end, and he seemed less than delighted to see her.

"How's tricks, Fran?"

"Lousy."

He asked her what she wanted, and his eyebrows went up when she told him to make her a white wine spritzer. Charlie's usual customers were beer and whiskey people, the women included, and it was easy to read the unspoken thought in his head: who does this broad think she is? who does this broad think she is? He made her the spritzer with cheap Gallo wine from a gallon jug, took her money, and went back to the other end of the bar. She sipped her spritzer, made a face at it, and set the gla.s.s on the bar. At last she looked at me, and I knew she'd been drinking heavily before she got here. He made her the spritzer with cheap Gallo wine from a gallon jug, took her money, and went back to the other end of the bar. She sipped her spritzer, made a face at it, and set the gla.s.s on the bar. At last she looked at me, and I knew she'd been drinking heavily before she got here.

"What are you starin' at?"

She was right. I'd been staring at her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare."

"It's rude. Don't do it."

She was around thirty-five, not bad looking but frazzled, the way women often get when their marriages go wrong and they're stuck with kids. Her dark blond hair was cut in a stylish s.h.a.g, and she wore stone-washed jeans and a brown leather jacket. She took out a pack of Kools, shook one into her mouth, and looked at me again. "You got a problem if I smoke?"

"No, ma'am."

"Don't ma'am ma'am me! You want one?" me! You want one?"

"I don't smoke."

"Good for you. You'll live longer." She lit up, inhaled deeply, breathed it out through her nostrils. "What the h.e.l.l happened to your pants?"

I didn't want to tell her, but I had to. I had to talk to somebody, somebody, and it came spilling out of me as if a dam had burst-the pizza delivery, the stripper, the leaking pizza boxes, the stolen bike. By the time I finished talking she'd smoked the Kool down to the b.u.t.t and crushed it out in an ashtray. "So you gotta pay for the bike, huh?" and it came spilling out of me as if a dam had burst-the pizza delivery, the stripper, the leaking pizza boxes, the stolen bike. By the time I finished talking she'd smoked the Kool down to the b.u.t.t and crushed it out in an ashtray. "So you gotta pay for the bike, huh?"

"Well, I have to replace it."

"What a p.r.i.c.k. I always thought that Napoli was a p.r.i.c.k, and now I know for sure."

She signaled for another spritzer, plus a beer for me. She smacked my hand away when I tried to pay. Charlie served us in silence and gave me a look that could have been either an encouragement or a warning. Then he returned to Lonely Guy Corner.

Fran lit another Kool. "First time you ever saw a stripper, I'll bet."

"Well...yeah."

"First time you ever saw a naked woman in person, right?"

She smiled at me like a lawyer who knows the answer before he asks the question. There was no point in trying to lie to her. My face felt hot as I nodded.

Thankfully, her smile did not evolve into a laugh. She nodded, downed the rest of her spritzer, shook her hair, and looked me in the eye. "Would you like to see another one?"

My scalp tingled. Fran stared at me as rudely as I'd stared at her minutes earlier. This was it. This was absolutely and without a doubt the moment no man can be ready for.

"Yes," I finally replied, but was my frantically beating heart really in it? I didn't know. I couldn't know. All I did know was that I wasn't ready to be alone that night. Fran seemed neither pleased nor surprised by my reply.

"Drink up," she said, "and let's get out of this dump."

We didn't say good-bye to Charlie. She walked out of the place and I followed her like an obedient, fearful pooch.

I was frightened. While I'd been in Charlie's I'd felt safe, but suddenly I felt like a hostage, walking the night streets with Fran, even though nothing was stopping me from getting away. In fact, it seemed as if she'd forgotten all about me. She was two full strides ahead of me, and picking up speed. All I had to do was stop walking, but I didn't do that. I couldn't do that. This was the first woman I'd spent any time with since the death of my mother, and I wasn't ready for it to end.

I wondered if she'd known my mother. I doubted it. Fran didn't seem like a churchgoer to me. I hurried to catch up to her. She was breathing hard.

"Are you okay, Fran?"

She stopped walking, turned to glare at me. "How do you know my name?"

"I heard Charlie say it."

"He never spoke my name!"

"Yes, he did! How else would I know it? I don't know you. I never saw you before!"

She seemed as if she was about to start crying. She covered her face with her hands, took openmouthed breaths between her palms. She was hurting. I didn't know what to do. My mind raced with possibilities, one of which was to tiptoe away, then sprint the half mile to my own house. But I didn't do that. I couldn't. It would have been like abandoning the wounded.

"Would you like to know my my name?" I offered at last. name?" I offered at last.

"No, I would not," she said, keeping her face covered. "I have no interest in knowing your name."

"Okay, I won't tell you."

Fran seemed relieved to hear this. She kept her hands over her face but at least her breathing slowed. The night was loud with crickets. It was early October. Fran began to chuckle.

"Stupid crickets," she said.

"Why are they stupid?"

"Because winter's comin', and they don't even know it, 'cause it's been so warm. The first frost is gonna hit, and they'll all be dead."

"Yeah, but they they don't know that. It won't be so bad. It'll just happen to them, and that'll be that." don't know that. It won't be so bad. It'll just happen to them, and that'll be that."

At last, Fran's hands fell from her face. For the first time all night she stared at me with wide-open eyes.

"What are you," she asked, "a philosopher?" philosopher?"

I shrugged. "It's true, isn't it?"

"You're G.o.dd.a.m.n right it's true.... How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen, and already you understand somethin' like that. Man, some bad s.h.i.t must've happened to you, huh?"

If she was waiting for an answer, she wasn't going to get one. I just stared back at her, listening to the crickets.

"Sometimes I wish I was a cricket," she said softly. "Be nice not to know what's coming, you know?"